


Sardegna

by UnaCannucciaCortaCorta



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Festival di Sanremo RPF
Genre: Beach Holidays, M/M, One Shot, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23913802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnaCannucciaCortaCorta/pseuds/UnaCannucciaCortaCorta
Summary: Just a day in Sardegna, non è un gran che, written by an author who misses summer a lot
Relationships: Ermal Meta/Fabrizio Moro
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Sardegna

“Dinner is almost ready!“ Fabrizio shouted from the stone barbeque he was currently working on. It was one of the beautiful ones built of beige sandstones and positioned right under a big pine-tree that provided some shadow during the hot midday sun and now, during night time, it was the concert hall for some birds.

As Ermal entered the garden with some cold beer and fresh ciabatta in his hands he could immediately smell the fresh roasted fish Fabrizio had prepared earlier with some lemon slices and rosemary. (Ermal wasn’t allowed to handle cooking anymore after some incidents aka a pizza drowned in mozzarella water and Carbonara that resembled more scrambled eggs and had hurt Fabrizio’s Roman soul pretty much. From that point on he was in charge of guarding the timer for the bread.)

Ermal handed over his beer to Fabrizio who took a sip. The cold water drops ran down on Ermal’s hand and caused a prickly sensation. It was still quite warm although the sky had already turned from dark purple to blue to black. Some stars twinkled. He let his gaze wander over the wide big lawn that began right at the end of the terrace where he stood. The green width was interrupted by some flowers: big lavender bushes and splendid pink bougainvilleas. Mediterranean cypresses marked the property line and there were three big pine-trees grown over decades, their trunks surrounded by their brownish dry needles. The villa where they stayed was a bit hidden in the mountains and some miles away from the village and the ocean. In exchange it was quiet and they were abandoned by the world and its hectic pulse. Mobile phones didn’t really work and the internet connection was weak. But it didn’t matter.

Ermal remembered the first time they had stayed here: After some days he lost count of time and their days were dictated by nature and for once not by managements and record labels. They got up when the sun powerfully shone through the white linen drapes directly on their bed and they went to sleep when they were tired. Sometimes it was at 9 pm, sometimes late after midnight. It didn’t matter. Only they mattered.

When Ermal looked up he could see the dark sky with its stars. In Milan it was always too bright to make out stars because of the city lights but here it was easy. When he deeply breathed in he could smell the amethyst wisteria twining around the wooden terrace canopy. He turned to Fabrizio who was concentrating on turning the fish. He could observe him for hours. He loved it when he cooked because his gaze turned fully concentrated and almost angry. As soon as he called him his face relaxed and his features went soft.

If Ermal made an effort he could decode the letters on Fabrizio’s chest while dawn advanced. Of course he hadn’t closed his shirt. Nothing on earth had to feel more useless than the three top buttons of his shirts. Not that Ermal wanted to complain. His skin was innocent and blank like a fresh born baby but he had taken on the habit of tracing all the curved letters and words on Fabrizio’s skin when they lay in bed. Fast Ermal’s tongue wet his lips.

“Are you done drooling over me?” Fabrizio suddenly mocked him.

“I .. I didn’t drool. I was just watching you cook.”

“Sure.” He winked. Fabrizio knew that Ermal was convinced that he could watch him without attracting attention but it was hopeless. He was no good actor and even worse at hiding his feelings. He was straight forward, a characteristic Fabrizio valued although it made Ermal sometimes a pain in the ass. You always knew where you stood. And to conquer Ermal’s heart had been quite a task, Fabrizio thought, but it was worth it because he knew that now there was no longer any way out.

Ermal hated that he wasn’t better at hiding his intentions. As some month ago they had planned a surprise party for Fabrizio’s birthday Giada had always thought the kids, foremost Anita, were the weak point of their plan when in fact it was Ermal. But Fabrizio didn’t care. The younger one knew that it wasn’t always easy with him and to have found someone who kept up with all his insecurities and his direct nature made him profoundly happy and a warm wave went through him at the mere thought of it.

Ermal didn’t know because Fabrizio had never told him but he was the peace he had always been looking for. He couldn’t put it into words because it felt too big, too important to tell and Ermal would probably freak out- but it was the truth. He was his safe haven. The place where he could ancor, let himself go. He tolerated his thousand mood swings, first burning for an idea, then coldly leaving it. He engulfed his risotto. He watched Narcos with him although he hated it. He left him all the space Fabrizio needed when his mood turned broody again. He loved his kids like they were his own. He was never too tired to play with them, read them a bed time story, buy sand castles or ride imaginary dragons through their Roman garden.

The first time he was asked by Anita to read them a bedtime story Ermal was horrified. “What if they don’t like it?” He had no idea how fast the children had fallen for him, Fabrizio thought. Ermal remembered an Albanian fairytale his mother had always told him and he told it watching the little glowing stars at Anita’s ceiling. As he checked on her he flinched: Anita was sitting upright in her bed and her two favourite plush toys in her arm starring at him with big eyes just saying “We want another one!” And he told another story. And maybe a third that was interrupted by Fabrizio who affectionately reproached his daughter. “Ermal is not your personal story slave. One story is enough!” After that Anita decided that the Albanian fairytale was her favourite one and so Ermal had to tell it to her everytime he visited.

Fabrizio put the fish on a plate and started to cut it. “Do you want some more lemon?” he asked and Ermal nodded. While eating Fabrizio put a little shell out of his pocket. “Here, for you.” Ermal looked at the little gift. A part of the shell was missing and therefore it looked like a heart. “Is this a sign for your undying love for me?” Ermal joked. “Yes.” Fabrizio answered with a serious voice. “Bizio.” was the only word that escaped his boyfriend’s lips. “I know it’s just a stupid shell.” “It’s not.” Ermal grabbed it carefully. “You know what this place, this … us … means to me, right?” Ermal nodded and whispered. “I love you, too.” Fabrizio shyly smiled. Even after month it still had the same effect on him like the first time Ermal said it. Ermal would put it on his nightstand in Milan and during stormy, gloomy nights he would look at the heart shaped shell and at least inside of him the sun would shine for a tiny moment.

“When did you find it?” Ermal asked.

“As you decided to go for a walk.” While Fabrizio was capable of just enjoying the ocean for hours, watching the waves, the birds, the sun, feel the wind, Ermal lasted only an hour or maybe 100 pages of a really good book. Then he had to move, run into the waves, jump off of stupidly high crocks, examine the wet sand, look for shells and jellyfish. Usually Fabrizio got something out of it too because most days Ermal’s path crossed the little bar and he bought something like a beer or ice cream.

His most charming way to let Fabrizio know that he found something at the kiosk was to throw the cold popsicle on his sleeping boyfriend’s back who then grunted some Roman curses. “Nah I know you are not mad at me. You love me and you love that ice cream even more.” “You’re lucky I am not as fast as I used to be.” “Old man.” “Careful Meta, it’s only six years. And I have two kids.” “Bizio, it’s not that you were pregnant with them or gave birth.” “Nooo, but who had to chase them on the beach and threw them in the air? Who crawled with them through the snow and the sand and the leaves in fall? Who had to look for their lost plush toys? Under wardrobes, behind shelves?” “Hard knock life. Now eat before it’s all melted.” Ermal cut him short and Fabrizio sighed.

Later on Ermal put sun screen on his boyfriend’s back to make it up to him as said man paraphrased it although he knew that Ermal liked doing it. Nothing gave him more peace than the mixed smells of the salty ocean, the hot sand and sunscreen. This smelt like summer. This smelt like happiness.

“You know that this Jesus tattoos always creeps me out, don’t you?” “Why?” “He is starring right at me. Judging me. Particularly when we are … doing things.” Fabrizio laughed. “Doing things?” He couldn’t stop laughing. “Maybe we should think about new positions.” Ermal now had to laugh, too.

The day on the beach ended in the evening as the colour of the sky started changing from blue to yellow.

“We should go, what do you think?” Fabrizio nodded. They packed their towels, their books, the rest of the focaccia and sliced melons.

They climbed the stony stairs back to the parking lot where Fabrizio had parked his black Mercedes SUV. As they opened the front doors it was like the Sahara inside. “Why didn’t you put the coverage over the front? You can’t even touch anything in here.” Ermal nagged. „We have air-con.“ „What a nice idea! You are driving this hell of a car and why not turning on the air conditioning?!” “Would you come down? I explained several times that I’ll buy a new car as soon as possible.” “Because you are really poor and can’t afford one right now?” “Ermal?! Just shut up okay? We had this talk a hundred times. We open all doors and wait some minutes, then we start with windows wide open, alright?” Ermal wanted to smack a door to underline that he indeed wasn’t alright but this would have been conterproductive so he sighed loudly and a bit dramatically. Some minutes later on Ermal was still standing a bit poutily next to the car and waited.

“Melon?” Someone asked and a tattoed hand appeared right in front of him holding a slice of pink watermelon. How many times had he squeezed that hand? Backstage. In the streets of Rome at night. In Milan. In Bari. In Lisbon. At birthdays. At funerals. At his sister’s wedding. When they met later on Anita’s first school day. For the first time in the dark of a hotel room in Sanremo. When Fabrizio’s big hand clasped around his one he always softly caressed the ‘pace’- lettering. It was like a reassurance that everything was good. That now he was safe.

“Listen, I am sorry about the car. You know we talked this through. I’ll get a new one. Maybe even electric. Just stop being so … grumpy.“ He hugged him from behind and laid his head in the spot between Ermal’s shoulder and neck. Ermal’s curls were salty and dry from the ocean water. As Fabrizio rubbed his face softly against the other one’s he felt some sand still lingering on his skin. He loved how the ocean never really let go of you. The hours spent there resonated in you for a long time: The sand grains on your skin, in your shoes, in your bags, in your hair, the salt on your skin, on your lips when you touch them with your tongue, the dry hair dull from the salt, the movement of the waves that you still feel when lying in bed in the evening.

Ermal relaxed and leaned against Fabrizio who knew that he was long forgiven. “Andiamo amore?” he asked. “Yeah. Let’s get baked in your nature killing oven of a car.” He could never let really go but it was fine, Fabrizio chuckled.

When they turned on the coastal highway Ermal watched the bars and restaurants filling with people. Some looked rather posh, women dressed in wavy airy dresses with wild patterns, men in chinos and loafers without socks but big golden watches on their wrists. They would visit the restaurant with clean white tablecloth and artsy designer chairs, silver champagne coolers and would talk about their day spent on a yacht. As they drove on the buildings changed: Small wooden houses appeared. Bars whose furniture was made of europallets, where cheap but authentic good food was served, where you could sit with flip-flops and most of the waiters worked in a surf school during the day. When they eat out it was always these places they went for. It was simple. It was good. Nothing chichi.

The bars became less and less as they headed towards the mountains to their stony housing. The streets were lined with big oleander in white and pink, near the beach there were sporadical palms. The car was still hot so Fabrizio rolled down all windows. Ermal’s head rested on the door frame as the landscape changed, the road got rockier.

Music blasted from the radio. Springsteen with “Born to run”. From the corner of his eyes he saw Fabrizio singing along. With his English skills it was more a mimicing the words but there was no bigger soft spot for Ermal than Bizio talking (or trying to) English. He mistreated the grammar in such a rough way that at the same time he, a former linguistic student, wanted to cry and help him improve. The wind blew through his hair and he put his hand, bronzed from the last days always outside always in the sun, out of the car. The sky was now pink and yellow and the clouds looked like purple cotton candy. It was like they didn’t move, the sky, the landscape, but only the car while everything else stood still. With his hand he could feel the mixed temperatures. The coastal wind, breezy and salty and fresh, and the air from the inland, hot from the day’s sun and only now in motion because of the upcoming wind.

He watched Fabrizio changing the gear. His sun kissed arms, his tattoos. After two weeks under the Sardinian sun Fabrizio now looked almost oriental with his dark skin, his almond shaped dark eyes and dense eyelashes. With his silver rings on his hand he jangled on the steering wheel following the music’s tact.

_The highway's jammed with broken heroes  
On a last chance power drive  
Everybody's out on the run tonight  
But there's no place left to hide  
Together, Wendy, we can live with the sadness  
I'll love you with all the madness in my soul  
Oh, someday, girl, I don't know when  
We're gonna get to that place  
Where we really wanna go and we'll walk in the sun  
But 'til then, tramps like us  
Baby, we were born to run_

“Do you about our bar sometimes?” Ermal took a gulp from his bottle. He and Fabrizio stood on the terrace and watched the stars.

“In Costa Rica?”

“In Greece, Bizio! I don’t want to cross path with the woman you almost married there.”

He chuckled.

“To answer your question: Yes, I do. But what would the Greek say about two old men living together. ‘They are just best friends, my dear, uncle Fabrizio and uncle Ermal are living together in a shared flat.’ They would talk.”

“Fabrizio! Look at me! People will always talk. They would talk if they knew about us. They are talking now as they don’t know about us.”

He never called him Fabrizio. Only when they fought. Or talked about their future.

“We will have that bar.”

Their Peroni bottles clicked and Fabrizio buried his hand in Ermal’s hair putting all his love in one gesture.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like it. It's nothing big but the last days I remembered some beach holidays, I thought about summer and this feeling of freedom and everything will be fine that I only get at the seaside.


End file.
